My Confession
by MourningBlade
Summary: James Potter is dead!  Absolutely DEAD.  Dead.  When I get my hands on him, he'll be sorry his parents ever copulated!  I run down the corridor intent, heedless of the curious stares I'm drawing from fellow classmates.  The Head Girl.  Running through Hog


James Potter is dead! Absolutely D-E-A-D. Dead. When I get my hands on him, he'll be sorry his parents ever copulated! I run down the corridor intent, heedless of the curious stares I'm drawing from fellow classmates. The Head Girl. Running through Hogwarts like a first year. It's ridiculous. Simply absurd. But it doesn't matter. Because Potter is dead.

I pause at the portrait of the Fat Lady, panting for breath and struggling to remember the ruddy password. I'm too angry to think straight. Furious. Livid. Pick an adjective. None of them are adequate to describe the tumult of shaking, trembling, _sickening_ emotions I'm experiencing. It comes to me. Finally.

"Harmony!" I all but scream at the portrait, well aware of the annoying irony of it. Harmony indeed. When I finish with Potter, none of his body parts will ever harmonize again. Isis herself wouldn't be able to piece him together again if he was her beloved Osiris.

The fat lady's eyes widen on her doughy face. She's offended. I don't care. I want her to open. I have a Head Boy to maime. She complies, sensing my fury and wanting no part in it. Good for her. I'm in no mood to be trifled with.

I burst into the Gryffindor Common Room, cheeks flushed and hair ascue. The room is packed to capacity. Great. So most of Gryffindor will get a show. Again. I scan the room with narrowed eyes. Potter! I spot him by the fireplace with the other idiots--Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew--lounging in a chair and chatting, completely oblivious to the fact that I'm about to help him kick his nasty oxygen habit once and for all! I rush over to them, pushing a third year--Ellie Mitchell--out of the way, sending her sprawling. She shouldn't have gotten in the way! I stop in front of Potter, who looks up at me, all grins and dimples. My fury is palable. He must sense it. Even Potter isn't that thick. I glare at him. He bats his eyelashes at me. The room goes silent--tense--everyone is waiting for it. I don't disapoint them.

"James Potter you numb-tongued toerag GIT!!" I scream at him.

My wand is out, pointed at him. The effect is somewhat dampened by the tiresome repetiveness of it all. It happens at least once a week. More often than that, if Potter doesn't happen to have a girlfriend.

"Evans, love," He drawls, rumpling his already impossibly messy hair. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

He's still smiling. My jaw drops. For a moment, I'm at a loss for words. Can he be serious? Can he really be sitting there, flirting with me, pretending innocence after what he's done? How. Dare. He.

"You know perfectly well, you unbelieveble bastard!"

His brow furrows, his handsome features giving every impression of deep thought. I'm not buying it. He's a moron. An immature, bullying toerag _moron_ incapable of cognitive thought of any kind.

He shrugs. "I'm afraid, Lily-love, that you'll need to be more specific." He casts a helpless glance over at Black, who's smirking. "You see, I've done so very many things recently that it's rather hard to determine _which_ thing has brought me so delightfully to your attention."

He favors me with another smile, a crooked smile that he's so certain is charming. Perhaps some girls thought so. But not me. It only serves as fuel to my already considerable fire.

"Bertram Aubrey." I say. My free hand slides to my hip for emphasis. "My boyfriend. Ring any bells?"

I arch a brow at him, remembering belatedly that he claims the gesture turns him on. He's on his feet, closing the distance between us. I keep my wand trained on him. I know better than to drop it. Unlike the git before me, I _learn_ from past mistakes. Potter is completely unpredictable and giving him a slight reprieve could easily have unforeseen consequences. I jab my wand into his chest, keeping him at a careful distance.

"I'm sorry, darling." His tone is carefully mournful, his eyes wide with regret. Puppy eyes. Warm, choclolate eyes with flecks of green and gold. I'm not buying it. Potter is an expert liar, second only to Black.

"Bollocks!" I hiss at him. "You're so full of crap I can smell you from here, Potter."

He drops the act, finally realizing the futility of it all. "Fine." He admits dismissively. "I'm not sorry. But you must admit, it was a distinct improvement." He's flashing me another grin, perfect teeth and all. Black is snickering and Lupin is trying hard not to.

"An _improvement_? You think swelling my boyfriend's head to twice it's normal size is an improvement?"

He tries the wounded puppy-look again, forgetting that I'm completely immune. "But it puts his features into adequate proportion to his face. He looks better that way. Less like a side-show attraction."

My grip on my wand tightens to the point of painful, my knuckles going white. "The only side-show attraction around here is you, Potter. The amazing 'boy-without-a-brain.' "

"So you admit you think I'm amazing?" He asks me trimphantly.

I sigh, realizing my mistake. I'd forgotten his annoying habit of selective hearing, his tendency to sift my words and spin the choice phrases in a way that stroked his ego.

"I think," I reply through clenched teeth. "that you are an amazing ass!"

He's grinning so broadly that I think he's face might crack in two. He looks over at his mates. "You lot heard that, right? She thinks I have an amazing ass!"

The hand that had been fisted at my hip moves to rub the bridge of my nose. I really need to think carefully before I speak. My desire to kill him is making me careless. I know better than to say things like that. I really, really do!

I remember that he doesn't have a girlfriend this week. Potter is always markedly worse, harder to manage, when he's unattached. Not that having one makes much difference with regards to his advances. He doesn't let little details like being technically unavailable dampen his annoying pursuit of me. It's a measure of how little chance he actually has with me that the girls themselves aren't even bothered in the slightest by it. They seem to be amused by it all--his asking me out, my vehement refusals.

I decide not to respond to his baiting. "Bertram will be in hospital wing for two weeks." I inform him. "And he's dumped me!"

He doesn't look ashamed in the slightest by these revelations. He looks elated. Ridiculously pleased.

"And it's all your fault!" I'm shouting again, hoping some of my fury pentrates that armor of ego he wraps himself in. "Do you have any idea how much pain you've caused me?"

"I can kiss it and make it all better." He tells me, wagging his eyebrows suggestively. He takes a step forward, oblivious to the firm point of my wand, which must be digging painfully into the muscles of his chest.

"Don't you dare!" I squeak, backing up a step.

He keeps coming at me. He's serious this time. I can tell by the dead-pan expression his features have settled into. I take another step backward, taking my eyes off his advancing form to glance towards the door. As a result, I'm not watching where I'm going. The back of my legs collide with a solid mass--Black's feet--and I fall backward, flailing my arms about in an attempt to catch my balance. My wand flies out of my hand, landing meters away.

Potter's arms are around me, locked about my waist, catching me before I can hit the floor. I look up at him, suddenly concious that his lips are inches from mine. He's so close I can feel the soft heat of his breath fanning my cheek. Our eyes lock. He leans inward, making good on his threat. I have a fraction of a second to realize that Black tripped me on purpose before Potter's lips collide with mine. Shock pounds through me.

I can't think.

I can't react.

I can't ...

_believe that this is happening!_

I gasp. He uses my open mouth to his advantage, his tongue pushing inside, sweeping past my teeth, past any thoughts of resistance.

Wait.

Past any thoughts of resistance?

What's wrong with me? This thought restores me to my senses. I shove him off me, forcing our lips apart. He steps back a pace, smiling giddily, looking extremely pleased with himself. I ignore him, rushing for, and retrieving, my wand. I turn back, murder in my eyes, wand aimed. Black and Potter take in my mused hair, my flushed, trembling-with-fury expression. They exchange a look.

"Run!" Black yelps, jumping over the back of a chair and scrambling for the Boy's Dormitory. Potter makes a run for it as well, sliding across the polished wooden floor, his feet failing to find purchase against the slick surface in his haste to get away.

Teeters begin about the Common Room as our forgotten audience takes in the ridiculous sight of Black and Potter's desperate flight. My cheek twitches as I struggle to control laughter of my own. Well, who wouldn't laugh at something like that? I throw hexes at them, out of habit more than anything. None of them connect. My heart isn't really in it. I decide I'll kill him later.

* * *

Voices.

Laughter.

The shuffling, staggering sounds of drunken feet.

I sigh, shift my position on the couch, and look up just as the portrait swings open.

Not voices, I realize. A voice. Potter. Sodding drunk and making enough noise for ten. The Head Boy. Drunk. Staggering into our Common Room--the Head's Common Room--at 2am, shamelessly making enough noise to wake the dead. How very responsible of him. What an excellent example he makes! Dumbledore isn't insane. No. Not at all.

He's stopped in the entry-way, having seen me on the couch. "Lily!"

His voice is slurred. He must be completely pissed.

"You're drunk, Potter." I point out the obvious, tossing my book aside.

"I know!" He replies with a goofy, drunken grin. "Isn't it great?"

I wrinkle my nose at him contemptously. "You're disgusting." I tell him. "You make me sick!"

He flinches at the insult, as if I'd stuck him. A crest-fallen expression replaces his grin, his state of drunken bliss giving way to obvious depression. He staggers over to me, stumbling twice in the process and nearly ending up on his arse. He stops just shy of the couch, his eyes wide with hurt, briming with unshed...

Tears?

Icy fingers of guilt clutch at my spine. Perhaps I've taken it a bit too far. I've never made him cry before...

"Potter, look--" I begin, trying to find the right words to bring the situation back to neutral. I don't want him crying. Even if he is drunk, making him cry makes me the bad guy, the unbelievable bitch. I won't have that on my conscience.

"I don't know _who_ he is!" Potter exclaims, his tone hurt and bewildered.

He also wasn't making any sense. "Who?" I reply, wondering just how much he's had to drink.

"This guy that you imagine me to be!" He continues, his wounded eyes remaining fixed upon my face. "But he must be one awful git for you treat me so badly."

His tone is so pathetically hurt, so desperately forlorn that I shudder a bit. He notices my distress and tries to sit on the couch next to me. He's too far away. He misses and begins to fall. I jump up, trying to prevent the inevitable, not wanting him to be hurt. It's futile from the beginning. I'm by far the tiniest, shortest girl in our year. I stand no chance in defying gravity without the aid of my wand.

We land on the hard floor in a hopeless tangle of limbs. I'm sprawled across Potter, practically straddling him. He lies still for a moment, eyes closed, his breathing heavy. At first I think he's injured from the fall, as his body had the misfortune of absorbing our combined impact. I peer down at him--concerned. My hair falls forward, curtaining our faces as I lean towards his face for a closer look. A silky lock brushes his cheek.

His eyes open suddenly, startling me. They no longer hold that defeated, pathetic look. The hurt has been replaced. I read his lust and desire for me swirling in those hazel depths, rapidly pushing away the alcohol-haze. It is at this point that I realize that injury is the last thing on his mind. I'm atop him. My breasts are firmly pressing into the spongy-hardness of his chest, nipples beaded and poking through my shirt. He's _savoring_ it, his happy misfortune, which resulted in this intimate touching of our bodies. His arms wrap around my waist, crushing me to him. I _know_ what he must be thinking. I feel it. I feel his rapidly growing erection pressed into my hip, the hard length of it twitching. Pure heat.

Oh! My! God!

Blood rushes into my cheeks. I struggle against him, trying to pull away. He resists, holding me firmly, his breathing increasingly slow and labored. I tilt my head up to look at him, my heart pounding frantically against my rib cage like a butterfly trapped in a glass jar. Our eyes meet and my breath catches in my throat.

Why can't I breathe?

He can. A sighing puff of air escapes his lips. His mouth opens and I realize he's going to say something. I need to stop him. I have to. Whatever he's about to say...

I choke out the first word I can think of. "James."

His name from my lips gives him pause. It's the first time I've called him anything (that wasn't an insult) other than 'Potter.' His eyes widen slightly, following the path my tongue traces across my bottom lip as I lick it nervously.

"Lily." My name rolls from his tongue like a fleeting caress, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers down my spine.

"I'll give you anything." He continues. "Anything in the world for a single kiss."

There is only one response any sane girl could have to such an offer.

"Yes." I manage to say.

His reaction is instant, abrupt. His hand slides upward from my waist, tangling into my hair. Sensuous. Delicious. And he hasn't even kissed me yet. I find my face tugged roughly to his, our mouths crashing together with a violent need. His tongue flicks across the seam of my lips, requsting access. I oblidge him, parting them without hesitation. His tongue works mine with erotic precision--electric. Jolt after blissful jolt shoots through me, to my core. My hands are moving of their own accord, twining around his neck possesively. I don't know what's gotten in to me. I don't care. I give in completely, offer him total and willing capitulation. In mere seconds I've gone from cold and untouchable Lily Evans to a wild, aching creature begging to be consumed by him. And I can't bring myself to care.

I shift, straddling him in earnest now, urging our lower halves closer together until I feel his arrousal straining against me. I gasp into his mouth, a hot, raspy shudder that causes him to moan in response. His hand tightens about my waist, the grip needy--hard and demanding. I rub against his erection. Spears of pleasure lance through me, spawning other bursts of sensation. He moans again, a strangled noise ripped from his throat. He moves his lips to my neck and all I can do is gasp--high-pitched and breathy. His hand is wandering, sliding up and down my back as his tongue drives all coherent thoughts from my mind.

"James." I say his name again. Begging.

His lips reclaim mine, stilling my words with sheer bliss. His kiss is hard and demanding. Like his touch. Like his...

"Stop." I tell him, not meaning it. I kiss him more ferverently. My tongue is in his mouth.

"Can't." His voice is a ragged whisper. His hands are in my hair, stroking--pulling, tugging. He deepens the contact, his pace matching mine. "You."

His hands travel downward. He cups my breast. My thoughts are far from lucid. I want him. I want to feel the touch of his broom-calloused hands beneath my shirt, against my bare skin.

"Can't." I admit. My voice is just as ragged--laced with desire. I reach up, running my hand through his hair to muse it, as he always does.

He likes this. A lot. He's moaning. He clutches at me.

"_Holy shit!_"

We break apart in shock, twisting about towards the voice. Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew stand just inside the doorway clutching bottles of fire whisky, their mouths open in disbelief. I don't know who spoke. I'm not sure I care. The spell is broken. I blush and try to spring off him, wanting to flee. He holds me fast, preventing me, all the while favoring his mates with a look of good-natured annoyance. He arches a brow at them, waiting.

Black is the first to speak. "We forgot the password to the Dorm." He says by way of explanation.

"So you came here." Potter is clearly unamused.

"We thought you might use the company?" Pettigrew offers.

"But clearly you already found some." Lupin puts in.

Potter is grinning now, that goofy, self-satisfied, _cocky_ grin that always drives me crazy. And not in a good way. It reminds me what an arrogant bastard he is.

"Delightful company." He agrees.

That's it. I jerk away from him violently, breaking his hold and stumbling to my feet.

"I hate you." I tell him.

He sits up, propping himself on his arms. He offers me one of those famous Potter grins. "No you don't."

"Yes, I _do._" I insist. "I hate you all!" I tell the Marauders.

"That lot," Potter says conversationally, the grin never leaving his face. "you can hate. I'm not to fond of them at the moment myself."

My eyes narrow into slits and I wonder how many times I'll need to brush my teeth to ge the taste of him out of my mouth.

"Sod off!" I tell him--them--pivoting on my heel and making towards the stairs.

"Lily wait!" He sounds concerned now. "They were just leaving! _Weren't you._" I hear the tension in his voice.

"Yeah." Black is laughing now.

"Leaving." The drunken Lupin agrees.

I ignore them all, fleeing to the saftey of my room. I hear Potter curse, loudly and ferverently. I can't believe I just kissed him. I bolt my door behind me. Potter can't be trusted. When I'm honest with myself, I admit that I can't be trusted either.

* * *

I'm avoiding Potter. It's no easy task, but I manage it. I manage it by being late for class and leaving early. I lie to my Professors without remorse, using whatever excuse obtains my end. I'm a terrible liar. Unlike Potter, I've not had much cause for practice. But on the flip side, I have nearly seven year's worth of flawless veracity on my side. You can't buy that kind of credibility. No matter how absurd my story is, the Professors buy it. Potter alternately scoffs at my excuses or tries to join me. It doesn't work for him. They know him too well.

My last class is Potions. It's my best subject. My passion. Slughorn praises my "Draught of Living Death," pronouncing it perfect. It isn't, but I don't argue with him. Just like with Potter, I don't understand 'Old Sluggy's' fascination with me. Snape's potion is better, but Slughorn calls it passable. Snape glares at the world and stalks off, mumbling curses under his breath. I think it's likely that Snape is right. Slughorn is all those things and more.

I stay long after class is finished, preparing my ingredients for tomorrow's lesson--laying out the vials, preparing my caldron. It isn't safe to leave until well into the dinner hour. Even if it wasn't safe then, Slughorn would force me out. Nothing stands between Slughorn and food. Not even his favorite student. He hurries me out at five, locking the door and urging me to 'rest up' with a throaty chuckle that repulses me. I hope he trips on the way to the Great Hall. Then I feel bad for thinking such an awful thing about someone who thinks so highly of me.

The corridor is empty--I make doubly certain before venturing forth. I sigh as I walk, relieved that I've successfully avoided Potter, for a day at least. Tomorrow...well "tomorrow is another day."

"We need to talk."

I jump nearly out of my skin, whirling around to find Potter standing directly behind me. Where the ruddy hell did he come from? The hall was empty! I _checked!_ I shift from one foot to the other, nervously.

"We have nothing to talk about." I retort, sounding more defiant than I feel. I secretly congratulate myself for the success of my bluster. It almost sounds believable.

"Oh?" His brow arches upward in incredulity. "Have you forgotten that we _kissed_?"

"We have nothing to talk about." I repeat, taking a step back.

"We need to talk about our kiss." He insists, stepping forward.

"No." I growl out. "No we don't! I won't."

I sound like a petulant child, and I know it. It makes me angry that he's reduced me to such a state. I don't want to be on his level.

"Yes." He conveys a sense of almost parental command with that single word.

"No. And _you can't make me!_" I hiss at him, well aware of how immature I sound. I hate that he has the upper hand.

He grins and I realize my mistake--I've challenged him.

"Oh, I can make you." He assures me, striding towards me purposefully.

I have no idea what he has planned. I don't care. I drop all pretenses--and my books--and try to run. He catches me easily, grabbing me and slinging me over his shoulder caveman-style. I do not make it easy for him--hitting, kicking, yelling. He's oblivious, carrying me along to Merlin-knows-where. The few scattered students still roaming the halls alternately stare or point. Some laugh. None of them move to assist me, even though I'm plainly being carried off against my will.

"Mr.Potter!"

It's McGonagall. Thank God! Now Potter would catch it. Good old McGonagall would make him stop.

"Yes, Minerva?" He addresses her by her Christian name in an act of unparalelled cheek.

She sighs. "Detention. I trust you're familiar with the time and place?"

"Of course." He replies cheerfully. I can't see his face, but I imagine he's smiling. He doesn't even ask what the detention is for.

"Now if you don't mind," He tells her in a long -suffering tone. "Evans here and I have someplace we must be."

"Don't be late for detention." She sounds tired, weary of dealing with his antics.

I hear the inistant clicking of her shoes against the marble. I hear her walk way.

What?

_What the ruddy hell? _Has all the world gone completely mad? Why in Merlin's name didn't she stop him?

"You've done something to me!" I accuse him as he walks along. His hand is skimming dangerously high on my thigh, taking advantage of the situation. I don't mind this as much as I should and it annoys me.

"Nope." He chirps at me in the same cheerful tone he gave McGonagall. "People just see what they want to see."

He pauses.

"And right now, people see a couple of teenagers horsing around."

I sigh deeply and stop struggling. I accept the inevitable. Behind me a door creaks open. He shoves me inside a darkened--dirty-- broom cupboard. I know this place. It's a notorious hook-up spot for trysting couples. I've busted them here quite regularly on patrol. I glare at him as he joins me, closing and locking the door behind him.

"I hate you." I tell him.

But he doesn't reply. He can't. We're kissing again. I don't know how it happens--I have a sneaking suspicion that I initiate it--but I find my lips crashing down on his, our bodies clinging. I'm licking and sucking him; he's devouring my lips hungrily. We kiss. Raw. Frantic. His hands rub up and down my back, fingertips curling in to my muscles and crushing me against him. We kiss until we're both breathless and panting.

"I like the way you hate." He says in the breath between kisses. His voice is deep--husky.

I do, too. My lips are just in front of his and he claims them again with a groan. His tongue runs across my teeth then past them. I suck on it gently, savoring the taste of him.

"Keep hating me." He murmurs into my lips. "Never stop."

"No." I agree.

He moves his mouth from mine, his lips brushing a light trail of kisses from my cheek to my ear. He flicks his tongue across it. I gasp. He fastens his mouth to the lower lobe. I purr. I clutch. My hands grasp his tie and I try to pull him closer. No good. Still too much space between us.

His fingers tangle into my hair and he tilts my head back, his lips sliding to the column of my neck. He nips slightly, not hard enough to break skin, but hard enough to cause me to jerk against him.

"I hate what you do to me." I lie breathlessly. "Detest it."

"Does this make you shudder with revulsion?" He sucks at the hollow of my neck, the place where neck and shoulder meet. My knees buckle and I gasp again.

"Makes me sick." I agree.

"Me too." He replies.

He shoves me backward. We collide with back of the cupboard as his lips find mine again. The innocent brooms hanging against the wall clatter to the ground. We're making a ridiculous amount of noise. We're sure to be heard. I thrust my tongue into his mouth as he grinds against me, pinning me--_deliciously pinning me_--to the wall. I couldn't escape if I wanted to. I don't. I want--

"Open up!" A commanding voice says. "Prefect!" The door swings open forcefully, flooding the cupboard with light.

Potter's reaction is instant, his reflexes amazing. He shoves me behind him as he turns to face the patrolling prefect, hiding me from view with his body.

"Potter!" The voice sounds surprised. I realize it belongs to Paul Angstrome--a fifth year Hufflepuff. "But you're the--"

"Head Boy." Potter cuts him off, his tone harsh--annoyed.

"But I thought..." Angstrome is clearly at a loss for words. "It sounded like..."

"Yes?" Potter can carry more arrogance on a single syllable than anyone I've ever met.

"I thought someone was in here snogging." Angstrome is clearly embarassed but apparently not embarassed enough.

"You thought wrong." His voice is tight. He runs a hand through his hair.

"Oh." Angstrome sounds defeated. "But what were you doing in a broom cupboard?"

"Head Business." Potter says in a lofty tone.

"By yourself?" Angstrome's tone is incredulous. "In the dark?"

Silence. Tense silence. My breath catches in my throat. How will Potter get out of this one without damaging his reputation?

"Yes." He says this in an irritatingly condescending manner, as if Head Boy's routinely locked themselves in dark broom closets. He turns the word into a challenge.

"Right." Angstrome swallows. "I'll...leave you to it."

Angstrome leaves without another comment. It's a mark of the fear and respect the general populace of Hogwarts holds for James. Potter closes the door with a slam.

Darkness.

"_Lumos!_"

Suddenly, I can see him. He's facing me, watching me closely.

"Shall we talk now?" His expression is neutral, his tone faintly amused. "Or would you prefer to 'hate me' some more?"

"Why did you do it?" I ask him. "Why did you keep Angstrome from seeing me?"

His brow furrows in genuine confusion, as if he can't believe I even have to ask such a question. "To protect your reputation, Lily." He explains patiently. "I didn't imagine that you wanted what we were doing in here to be generally known."

"I don't get you." I say. "I thought once you had me you'd want everyone to know."

He freezes. "I have you?"

I ignore his question. "I was under the impression that you'd waste no time in making sure the entire school was aware of our relationship."

He grins at me--a goofy, delighted grin. His features are incandescant with happiness. "We have a relationship?"

I sigh. "Yes. But--"

I don't finish my thought. He grabs me by the hand, pulling me to him. We collide. His arms wrap about my waist.

"Lily," He's still smiling, his adorable dimples clearly visible. "All I ever wanted was to have you. I couldn't possibly care less if anyone else knows that I do."

The unspoken word 'Yet' seems to hang in the air between us. I ignore it. I'll deal with it later. Right now, I'm amazed. Dumbfounded.

"But--" I protest again.

He cuts me off. "You thought I was only in it for the chase." He accuses.

"Well, yes. But--"

"You thought that I wasn't sincere!" He sounds offended.

I decide to try another approach. "I don't get why you like me!" I burst out. Our eyes meet, our gazes hold. "What is it about me, Potter? Why do you..."

I can't finish.

"Why do I love you?" He finishes for me.

Weakly, I nod. He goes quiet, his eyes drift from mine.

"You don't know!" I'm upset. I try to push him away. He won't let me.

"It's not one thing, Lily." He says quietly. "It's everything. I love everything about you. The way you yell at me when I annoy you. The cute little smirk you get right before you say something particularly scathing. You never hesitate to tell it like it is. To call me out on my crap. And you don't fall adoringly at my feet."

He pauses.

"You're the only girl that ever said 'no.' At first, I was insulted, determined to win you over. And then?" He shrugs. "I realized that I was head-over-feet. Completely gone. Instead of forcing you to worship me, as I'd intended, I came to worship you."

I alternate between delight and disgust, anger and wonder.

"I hate you." I tell him, wrapping my arms about his neck. My lips lightly brush his; a gentle kiss--no tongue. It's arrousing all the same.

"I like the way you hate." He breaths. "Keeping hating me. Don't stop."

He deepens the kiss, his tongue tracing along my bottom lip. My mouth parts. I gasp.

I never want to stop.


End file.
